


The End of the Fairytale

by JuneLoveland



Category: Roman Holiday (1953)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 20:59:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17050472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuneLoveland/pseuds/JuneLoveland
Summary: Very happy, ever after.





	The End of the Fairytale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icannotlivewithoutmysoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icannotlivewithoutmysoul/gifts).



_It was nearing lunch time, and the crowd in the Piazza Vittorrio was growing just past heaving, so he took her hand, casually guiding her past the stall where the fishmonger was shoveling out handfuls of the tiny, gleaming little moscardini, arranging them just so on his shelves of ice, waging a valiant battle against the bright June sun. She stopped, and from the way her eyes shone as she watched the man corralling his goods, Joe was fairly sure they didn’t have those back in Luskine. He heard the fishmonger now willing all patrons in a three mile radius in a throaty call to take away the salty little treasures before the ice gave up its fight. He glanced at Ann, and saw her eyes meeting his own at the same time, bearing their own question. She looked ready to buy, and to try. A kitchen had been a very good idea indeed._

\--  
For the first little while, Joe tried to convince himself that it was just one day. That is was princessness, or the thrill of Vespas and bets and champagne at lunch and bar fights at night, and that he couldn’t really be that gone on a girl after just one day. There wasn’t much in it, after all. He’d gotten the chance to throw a few punches and throw a lot of wine in Irving’s face, and that was enough. There was no reason to ask for love into the bargain. He went back to his flat, and he washed his pajamas. He turned in his dry bones story about her press conference, noting nothing about the way his heart wanted to leap out of its chest when their eyes first locked, or about the fine tremor that formed in his right hand as he kept himself from reaching out when she passed by him, going so slowly down the line of the corps.

But the dreams kept coming. They threw him for a loop, every time. For weeks since she’d walked away from him, for the last time, they had turned into something of a constant companion, treating him to tiny thrills during the day when he was supposed to be marking down notes of some auto man’s speech for an evening issue, or cataloguing all the features of a new film studio for the weekend editions, jolting him out of his sleep at night with sweet memories of things that never happened. 

He’d learned to read the papers in the morning, or afternoon as the case might be, before he made it into the office. And now that he knew her face, now that her photograph scanned as more than just “princess,” he could follow her progress, ringing her way round the rest of the continent. He knew when she had returned to her home country, the goodwill tour a rousing success. He even knew, from a tiny item buried in World Affairs in the _Times_ , that the Luskine Royal Family had since turned their attention to a ball, where an announcement significant to foreign relations was very soon expected. He worked harder on convincing himself that it was no matter to him how little he knew of what her home looked like, how much of a family the Royal Family really made. How few kinds of significance there really were in the world.

But it was no good. She had turned into a pumpkin and gone home, just like she said, but the story wouldn’t end. It kept writing itself.  
\--

_“We’ll be late,” he was attempting to be persuasive, but knew before he spoke that he would give in. Actually, he knew before he spoke that she had won what wasn’t even a contest. Ann was halfway down the block headed for the cart at the other end, and she made no response to his objection except to turn her head quickly and smile mischievously at him. Carnegie Hall was in the other direction, and Joe didn’t even sigh as he lengthened his steps to catch up with her; in fact, he smiled too. “Two,” he said, as he made it to the corner, grateful that at least there was no line. “One with mustard, and one with sauerkraut.” He quickly changed bills for their meals, and handed Ann her precious hot dog. She smiled up at him and made a toasting gesture, bun to bun. “Cheers,” Joe said._

_“Thank you,” she replied. “I didn’t relish an evening at the symphony on an empty stomach.” Her eyes twinkled in the gathering moonlight, and he felt he could do nothing less than kiss her on the spot. So of course, he merely took a bite and began walking again, in the right direction. She fell in step beside him, still smiling._

\--  
That one was the last straw.

Because he’d worked on forgetting her. He’d figured that if he let the thoughts of her pass through him, eventually they’d pass out of him and away, and she would take her natural place, as a memory that flitted through him when he saw gracefully bobbed hair, or as a certain warm, wistful feeling on long winter nights. But Ann, it seemed, was determined to linger. She met him in the morning when he woke and stayed with him through the night, and the thoughts and dreams didn’t come any less often whether he tried to dispel them or let them be.

Joe Bradley had always been a man of action, and this had always stood him in good stead. It’d seen him through the war, and onto the staff of several respectable journalistic enterprises, not to mention the rag he currently scrounged up bylines for, and it had kept him happy and healthy while stranded in a strange city for too many years to consider. So once he made up his mind that this dream Ann was in his mind, to stay, well, naturally, the only thing to do was to make the dreams unnecessary. And now all he needed was a plan.

\--  
_Ann was mesmerized watching Joe on the path. She saw him strolling slowly, deliberately, taking in all the sights of the forest trail, her favorite, still glazed now with a little dew from the early morning’s rain. She breathed in the sweet, earthy air of a fine summer’s day and felt content. Places like London, Athens, Paris, and New York she had seen, through various hotel and embassy and car windows, from the rooftops of factories and the parlors of assorted manor homes. Rome of course he had blown wide open for her, pointing out all the sights and sites she must see in order to have a true Roman experience, making sure she got to just what she wanted, however silly. And she had even seen his house, or at least the place he had carved out for himself after a fashion, in the wilds of a foreign city. But here was something new. Here she finally had time and opportunity to show him her own home, all the little secret places and spaces that could turn a palace into a pied-à-terre. But he was speaking._

_“You said it was your grandmother who showed you this trail?”_

_“Yes, one day when she saw that I was very tired of being a good girl. She told me it was enchanted by fairies, and that if I hid here for the afternoon, I would be protected from whatever I didn’t like.”_

_“I wonder how often you were here,” Joe said suddenly, and she couldn’t help the small giggle that escaped, because they both knew the answer very well._

_Then suddenly a loud crack sounded above them, and the heavens opened._

_“Uh oh,” Joe said, looking dismayed, and looking for all the world that he would have a jacket to take off his shoulders and wrap around hers._

_He was making moves to usher her toward the limited shelter of the tree line, and back toward the palace no doubt, when Ann struck forward on the path. “What oh? Don’t tell me you’re frightened of a little rain? Why, not Joe Bradley who has swam the Tiber River!” This time, she laughed outright. “And anyway,” she went on nonchalantly, “I have it on good authority that rain can’t bother us here.” Her eyes beckoned him to join her, and he caught on quickly, linking his arm in hers, drenched and lovely, rain quickly and mercilessly soaking them both to the skins as they continued their walk._

\--

Ann sat up suddenly in her bed and for a split second looked confusedly about her, searching for raindrops on roses before she remembered where she was, and why.

The first time it had happened, she had known she was dreaming the way you sometimes do. Ann had known it because of the pajamas. She wore them — top and bottoms both, to be sure — but they didn’t have rosebuds on, and they definitely hadn’t been hers before she claimed them like she had the kitchen she was standing in, before she called them into being as something she could take. She had only known Joe was there because she was standing in the kitchen he wanted them to share, preparing a meal she wanted him to eat.

When she had walked away from Joe the first time, she hadn’t been thinking of much at all beyond the promise of the sunny morning; she had completely left behind the kind man who had seen her safely through the night, and she certainly hadn’t been thinking of her family. When she’d walked away from him for the last time, though, it was all different. Joe was much on her mind, and her family too, and Ann thought she understood it all only too well; she thought she knew what she must do. Duty. Her duty, to her family, to her country, to the idea of monarchy and legacy, and tradition, and a lot of other words that somehow inspired people to look on her with respect just for being there, even to go through their days more hopeful and more content, counting her as the firm foundation under their feet! Why, it seemed impossible to throw all of that over. So she had begun convincing herself that it was just the night, the day, some remnants of whatever concoction Dr. Bonnechoven had shovelled into her to make her calm and relaxed, that had wound up making it so easy for her to fall in, well, whatever madness she had been in.

But that couldn’t be it. Because when she walked away from him, still huddled in that ridiculous automobile, when she walked away from him and moved on to the next man in the press corps, and then moved on out of the room, knowing he was still standing there, she hadn't been calm. When she woke in the night, heart pumping, hair mussed, sheets tangled in her toes, and thinking for a moment he’d be there, nearby, she was the opposite of relaxed, indeed. 

Her thoughts flew to Joe. By now, he might be properly awake in Rome, drinking cold coffee with his breakfast. He might not be thinking of her at all. She had asked him to forget; he had understood, his eyes seemed to agree. Walks away tended to be final, decisive. That’s what she had done; she had come to a decision about what she owed to the rest of the world. But now, she had made a resolution, and what’s more, she had a plan.

\--

It was a king’s prerogative, Ann supposed, to be somewhat querulous, but she thought her father was laying it on a bit thick. On the advice of his valet, she had been able to waylay him shortly after breakfast, and they were now ensconced in his study, where she had laid out the preliminary details of her scheme and was trying to be patient while she worked through his first protests. 

“Father, it’s public relations. I thought you would agree with me that Luskine should open itself up to the world a bit more? Now that I’ve completed this tour of goodwill, I for one feel the time is right for the country to make a few more inroads to further cooperation … across borders.” She finished a little lamely. Her father was not a naturally suspicious man, but he was shrewd, and although he had said little while she was unfolding her ideas, his remarks had all been full of questions. Perhaps he was going to be a bit harder to sway than she had presumed.

“My dear,” he said now, comfortably stretching his legs and settling further in his chair, and Ann held back a sigh at the sight. “I confess I am somewhat surprised by your sudden interest in, as you put it, public relations. You’ve always done your duty, of course, but to come to me with such a well thought out arrangement, involving not only our key diplomatic partners, their attachés, and the royal families of our closest allies, but the press as well, is frankly something of a wonder,” his eyes narrowed, and Ann concentrated on memorizing each little crinkle at each little corner. “I’m impressed!” He added, when she remained silent.

“Thank you father,” Ann replied, a small grin forming. “Only, it seemed natural that the gala was the perfect time to try for it, with my coming home. We’ve gone out and shown a small part of Luskine to the world, and now,” her glance became sidelong, “I thought we should bring the world to us.”

King James was silent for a moment. He studied Ann, her head bent for a few seconds after her last speech, but now raised to meet his eye, almost in challenge. “Tell me, dear. How do you see it?”

“I had not thought it completely through, of course. It’s only an idea, a good one I think. But, the gala has already been announced as event of some,” she hesitated, “Some importance on the world stage. It can easily be reported that Luskine is continuing its efforts to improve trade and political relations by inviting the world in. Your council here can make sure that all the interested parties are aware of any changes to the agenda, and I and mother can make arrangements with a few works and schools for viewings of their facilities. The press envoys who will document everything can be very easily gleaned from those I met on my travels in the larger outposts like London and Paris. And Rome.”

“Mm, yes. What, Rome? I’m sure you or the Countess at least made some contacts with the more prolific reporters in most places, only, you spent so little time at any actual engagements in Rome, where you were ill. I wonder you can have any memories of the press there.” He was beginning to talk more to himself than to her, and Ann saw it beginning to become his plan. “I suppose if it comes to it, we can just call up _Il Mesaggero_ and have them assign someone—”

“No,” Ann was proud of herself for how little her voice raised as she interrupted her father, but his gaze pierced her nevertheless. “No, father, I mean, I did have someone in mind from Rome. You may have forgotten that I did meet several members of the press there, briefly, on my final day. I have in fact a very strong impression of them.”

“Indeed?” It was her father’s eyes now, that held the challenge. Ann continued to meet his gaze, however, very calmly. Relaxed.  
\--

“For crying out loud, Joe, what is all this? Why did I have to rush over here at eight in the morning, and for heaven’s sake why did I have to dig out my bassoon?”

Irving had finally made it over, bright and early at 11:52, and Joe thought he would burst before he could calm the man down enough to tell him his plan. But he had brought the bassoon, at least, so Joe could forgive. “Will you sit down and let me tell you,” he said, shoving the man down into his armchair, and yanking the instrument out of his hands. Joe brushed a sheaf of dust off of the case and snapped it open, and marveled at the contents, some sort of strap and a what looked like half a saxophone. He had no idea what he was staring at. “Now look,” he said, as Irving tried to get up again. “I’ve got a plan.”

“What, you’re gonna get me my fifty bucks back?” This time Irving did rise, and he came closer into a confidential pose. “What’s going on?” He peered into Joe’s face and noted the brimming excitement there; this made him instantly suspicious, and his arms flew spontaneously to cover his pants as he glanced around for any handy glasses full of liquid. Joe was still pawing the bassoon and looking thoughtful. “Say, you’re not planning to have me hock this thing are you?” He tried to grab for it, and Joe pushed it out of his reach.

“No!” Joe protested.

“Well good, because I doubt if you’d get fifty for it in the first place, and in the second place, it’s a pretty crummy thing to pay me back with my own bassoon.”

“Irving will you listen? I’ve got it all figured out, now, if you just calm down and let me tell you.” Joe continued holding the instrument out of reach, and since he had nothing on until noon anyway, Irving figured he might as well hear his friend out. He sat down again. “Okay, Joe. What plan. With _my_ bassoon.”

“All right.” He paced a bit and sucked in a short breath. “All right. It’s about Ann.”

“Smitty? I mean, Her Royal … Smitty? What about her? Did something happen?”

Irving’s face went through about twelve emotions in the span of a second, and if Joe hadn’t been so wound up, he would’ve wanted the man to take a picture of himself. Instead, he went on. “You see Irving, it’s like this. Nothing’s happened, and I thought it would by now. I thought she’d be out of my system by now, and she’s just not.” He wouldn’t glance over to see the look of pity that was now surely on Irving’s face to stay, but he knew it was there.

“Hey, Joe, come on,” he was beginning to say, gently, the way he might comfort a child who lost a precious toy. “Don’t worry about it. Sometimes it just takes a while." When Joe made no answer, he went on, "And you know you haven’t really been on the town since. You're either holed up in here or walking down by the river. I don't know how many poker nights you've skipped out on. And that cousin of Francesca’s she’s been dying to – well, willing to fix you up with, you’ve backed out on her twice now.”

“I don’t want Francesca’s cousin.” Joe said simply, willing Irving to drop this line of talk.

“So what do you want,” he replied, still more gently, a small smile appearing. “A bassoon?”

“Yes,” Joe said, laughing in spite of himself. He sat down next to Irving and tried the deep breath again. “Here, look. Have you kept up with the papers?”

“Sure. Business is booming and the reds have a bomb.”

“Okay, okay. Well here’s something you missed. Ann’s back in Luskine and they’re having a ball.”

“Well, that’s great, Joe!” Irving threw up his hands. “I should think you’d be happy for Smitty that she’s having a wonderful time. What’s the problem?”

“Not having a ball, you dope.” He reached for the table where he'd cast his copy of the _Times_ , a bit dog-eared where the item about the gala appeared. He smacked the crown of Irving's head with the paper and tossed it in his lap. “They’re throwing a ball. A party. And I’m going to be there.” He patted the instrument case for emphasis, but Irving still looked lost.

He scanned the page and looked back up at Joe. “I take it this where the bassoon comes in?”

“That's right! See, I saw it all in a picture once. A guy was over the moon for a girl, real high society, and her family always kept her locked away. But one night they’re having a party, and the guy gets it in his head to slide in with the musicians, and no one’s the wiser. He slips out when the time is right, pours his heart out to the girl, and, well, they ride off into the sunset or something, I don't remember, but the important part is the music. Now do you get it?” Joe looked at Irving expectantly.

Irving had held his tongue throughout this somewhat fantastic summary, but now he shook his head slowly. “I don’t know Joe. It all sounds a little goofy. Won’t the orchestra notice an extra bassoonist sticking out? And how will you know where to find Smitty if you ever do even make it into the place? And for another thing, how are you gonna pay to get to Luskine when you already owe me fifty bucks?”

“Come on, Irving. You’ve got it for a pal, don’t you? I mean this is love we’re talking about here!”

“All right, Joe, all right. Calm down. Okay. Say you do happen to get there. You pour your heart out.” He stopped, and his gaze faltered, but then he went on. “Well. What if Smitty doesn’t want to hear it?” He reached out a hand and gave Joe's arm a soothing pat. “I’m only saying it because it could happen. She did leave you - I mean she left here for there. She might know all about your heart and still think it’s the wrong place, or the wrong time, or—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Joe cut him off, his words soft and clipped. “Irving, I can’t make her do anything, and I don’t want to. She did leave, and I let her leave without ever telling her that I didn’t want her to go. I don’t care if it’s the wrong place or the wrong time, because she’s the right person. That’s all I’m going to say.”

Joe’s words hung in the air between them for a long moment, and then Irving sighed. He looked up again and said, “Well Joe, in that case, my bassoon is your bassoon.” Joe grabbed his hand, clasping it warmly with a big, fond grin. “But!” Irving said, returning the clasp and reclaiming his hand. “I still don’t see how all the rest of it is going to work. What if the band is all brass? And what are you gonna wear? Have you even ever played—”

A knock on the door interrupted Irving’s building rant, and Joe was glad of it. So maybe he hadn’t thought through all of those tiny details. He had a week to plan yet; he was sure it would all work out. He opened the door and found a courier waiting with a letter. Somewhat puzzled, Joe took the missive, but when he attempted to dismiss the messenger, he was informed that the man was waiting for a reply.

“What’s up,” Irving asked, coming over near the door to look over his shoulder. Joe was halfway into his second perusal of the note, but he still couldn’t believe his eyes.

> August 21, 1953
> 
> Sig. Joe Bradley  
>  Via Margutta, 51  
>  00187 ROMA RM  
>  ITALY
> 
> Mr. Bradley:
> 
> His Highness, King James III of Luskine, requests your attendance in your professional capacity to report on the events of and leading up to the Royal Family during its Goodwill Ball, to be held on September 1. You are receiving this invitation because your reputation as a journalist is sterling, and it inspires faith in your ability to present occasions such as these in an informative but even-handed fashion, which is highly desirable as our nation continues its efforts toward opening its borders. Please advise by return of post whether you will accept this assignment. If you choose to participate, further details will follow.
> 
> With best regards from the Kingdom of Luskine.

Joe was stunned; he stared at the letter trying to process it for another half a minute while the courier waited. But Irving plucked the letter from his hands and laughed, loud and long. “Hey, Joe. No offense, but I gotta say, I like Smitty’s plan a lot better than yours.”

\--

Joe had spent the weekend loitering, pencil in hand but almost completely still while diplomats diplomatted and business people made long speeches full of promises about how to make themselves and their countries even more money for many more years to come. He’d been waiting for a sign of Ann, any sign, but eventually he figured that she might only be appearing at the ball that would close the weekend. That realization made the dry speeches go down like saltines. He wished he’d been able to smuggle Irving in with him, but when it came to the point, the man refused to play nice with his own bassoon.

Until the night actually arrived, Joe was fairly certain that the press were all going to be cordoned off in the ballroom and let to watch the grand goings-on only from afar, or from the passageway in the anteroom next door. Until he was seated, at the back and off to the side, certainly, but there in the room, and watching as Ann was announced, he wasn’t quite sure it was actually going to happen. Part of him was waiting for news of another illness. A larger part of him was waiting for the cold water to be poured over his head so he could be told he’d been asleep for twelve days. But then suddenly she was there, in the room, walking toward the head table and surrounded by dignitaries. Joe tried to breathe in sharply and found that all the air in the room had scampered off and left champagne bubbles in in its place. His heart was floating, his chest was on fire. He hadn’t even been able to catch her eye yet, and his head felt like a balloon, drifting up, up, into the champagne. She was lovely. He drank in the sight of her, elegant dress in place, hair just so, of course, tiara and all, but it was her eyes, and the wise little curve of her mouth that made him want to reach out.

When she gained the head of the room at last, Joe felt that her eyes came directly to him, and they held on. He smiled at her. She smiled back. When in the next second she was addressed by a Shah of some sort, she turned her head away, but the smile remained, much too large and much too fond for the speech of diplomacy she was now no doubt receiving. Joe, on hearing his seat partner strike up a fresh gripe about the lack of available Luskinian telegraph stations, knew his own face to be in a similar state.

\--

But after an hour, when there had been no end of addresses, no beginning of dancing, and no cap on his table’s agony corner, Joe was beginning to be frustrated. He’d come all this way; she’d wanted him to; she was right there, but there was no way to get to her across a room full of public opinion. He was starting to think he would’ve been better off with the bassoon after all; at least the musicians could come and go as they pleased, and they were a good ten yards nearer to Ann than he’d managed to get all evening.

He was half-forming a desperate resolution to run up to the head table and demand an audience when a little white card hit his elbow. He didn’t see who dropped it, and luckily the rest of his table was still consumed by their discussion of the best typewriter ribbons for travelling. Joe flipped the card over; "the upper balcony at eleven o’clock," was all it said.

Joe was there at 10:32. He spent the intervening half hour alternately pacing, finding the most striking position to be discovered in, and kicking himself for not bringing a drink with him.

And then she walked through the door at eleven on the dot, carrying two glasses of wine. She set them down near the striking spot he had found to stand in, and neither knew what to do next. Ann spoke first.

“I’m so very glad to see you here, Mr. Bradley. Joe. It seems so long since we have seen each other, and yet, it sort of feels as though no time has passed.”

“I know what you mean,” Joe replied, thinking of the many mornings he’d spent with Ann in his head. Ann in the flesh was here now though, and he had a heart to pour out to her. “An– I don’t know what to call you,” he said a little sheepishly.

“Ann will do nicely,” she said, coming to join him so they were face to face. “Although I’ve been known to answer to Smitty.” 

She laughed, and he delighted at the sound, at how close but so much more real it was than what he’d been hearing all these months. “Ann, then.” She nodded. “Ann.” He took another breath, and she gazed at him, patiently. She was waiting for him to continue speaking, to finish his thought, but the words wouldn’t come. They were spilling all over themselves in a race to get out of his mind and his heart and his mouth until they lost all sense, and he lost all sense, and he reached for Ann, and he kissed her. A hand came up and curled around the nape of her neck, and she wound her arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer as he traced her mouth with his own, the press of his lips gentle and leisurely, as though they had all the time in the world. He didn’t have to say anything at all.

When they broke apart, he was a little dazed, although their kiss had lasted all of twenty seconds. Ann seemed the same, but she at least was able to speak. He still wasn’t. “I have a proposition for you,” is what she ended up saying. “How have you enjoyed your time in Luskine?”

Joe was brought up a bit short. “I haven’t formed a solid opinion,” he said eventually, thinking of the haze of forests and factories and finery he'd seen while twiddling his thumbs and waiting for Ann to arrive. “I’m certainly liking it better and better. Although confidentially,” he leaned closer so his whisper grazed the shell of her ear, “A few of my comrades have some complaints about the lack of telegraph services at hand. Apparently it’s a real problem.”

“Well, if that disappointment can be got over,” her eyes darted up to his, down suddenly, and up again. “I talked it over with my father, and he’s beginning to see the need for expanding our press if we’re to be taken seriously in our political efforts. We - I was thinking you might like to stay and … help?”

In what capacity, he didn’t know. For how long, he didn’t know. As far as he knew, he was tied to a lousy job in Rome and owed two and a half months’ rent on a poky little flat that got the sun in the morning but not the afternoon. There was only one thing to say.

“I think that could be arranged.” He leaned in to kiss her again, but suddenly drew back. “Wait. Wait a minute. Before we go any further or make any pronouncements, and before you tell me anything about trade relations to please that slavering mob back in there,” Joe interrupted her, nodding toward the ballroom. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you for a while,” he continued, his hand hovering at her waist, and finally making its landing.

Her eyes were full of questions; a delicious mingle of trust and shyness, hesitations and hope, but she was silent, inviting him to go on.

He knew his own eyes were unsuitably mirthful, and his cheeks were ablaze like a school-kid’s, but he did his best to meet her sweet, questioning gaze in earnest while he began:

_“I met a lady in the meads, full beautiful—a faery’s child;_  
_her hair was long, her foot was light, and her eyes were wild._  
...  
_I set her on my pacing steed, and nothing else saw all day long,_  
_for sidelong would she bend and sing a faery’s song._  
...  
_And there she lulled me asleep, and there I dreamed—ah! woe betide!_  
_The latest dream I ever dreamed on the cold hill’s side.”_  


“Keats?” She said, smiling slowly, still looking at him wonderingly. “That’s my favorite.”

Joe laughed softly, eyes crinkling with affection as the corners of his mouth turned all the way up in a grin. “Yeah. Mine too. I had a feeling you might like it.” He chuckled with delight, and bent his head low to meet hers, for the next kiss.

\-- la fine --

**Author's Note:**

> The movie Joe refers to is _A Damsel in Distress_ , from RKO in 1937, and written by P. G. Wodehouse. It’s well worth digging up if you ever want to see Fred Astaire, George Burns, and Gracie Allen dance their way through a funhouse. And why wouldn’t you want to see that?
> 
> The lines of poetry Joe quotes are excerpted from “La Belle Dame sans Merci,” which was indeed written by John Keats.


End file.
